


A Light in the Gloam

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Demons, Dream Sex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mages, Sexual Tension, Shades, Spirits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A battle weary mage, a shade that lives a half life, dream lovers, demons, a peaceful village on the edge of an evil forest, and a choice that will determine if Light or Dark prevails.<br/>Where John is a mage who finds a home in a small village that was left unprotected after the previous mage dies under mysterious circumstances, but he soon finds out that Sherlock might not be as dead as everyone seems to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by Mercedes Lackey's poem, [Lammas Night.](http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/2012/11/lammas-night-by-mercedes-lackey.html)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> The months are listed according to the eight major observances of the pagan/earth-centered faiths. I have named the months after the important observance within each month. Each observance was usually held around the full moon, so the four months missing an observance I’ve named after the full moon of each month, and then translated them into Welsh. Hence, Autumn Moon would be Lleuad yr Hydref.
> 
> At the end of each chapter will be references for the properties of stones and woods listed.
> 
> MANY MANY thanks to my beta, [Batik](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik) and doc sitter, [KrisKenshin](http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Cover art by KrisKenshin](http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/82347293580/fan-art-for-a-light-in-the-gloam-john-is-a-mage)

** Yule **

  


He stared at the lifeless body on the floor. Something had gone horribly wrong. He paced a circle around the man in the deep purple mage’s robes, trying to figure out what he’d missed. A breeze drifted in through the open door, stirring the dark curls covering the face of the man on the floor and carrying a sing-song voice with it.

“A failed experiment, Sherlock?” the demon taunted. The breeze turned into a sharp gust, blowing back the remainder of the curls that had hidden the features of the man only a moment before. Sherlock’s own dead eyes stared back at him, seeing nothing.

“Oh, those poor villagers.” The voice oozed with mock sympathy. “Their mage abandoned them in pursuit of something more interesting. But, then again, you never really cared about them, did you? Just a convenient roof over your head and an escape from your brother. All you had to do was keep their wards up. Well, Sherlock, that’s not going to happen now. Oh, no. And I can’t wait to feast when the wards fall. See you in Hell,” the voice crooned as the wind retreated.

Sherlock screamed into the abyss as the demon’s laughter faded back into poplar forest. This was not the way it was supposed to have gone. What had he missed in his casting? He pressed his fingers to his temples, searching for some clue as he waited for the pull of the Reaper, who came to collect souls.

The sun rose over the hill, dawn’s light seeping through the window and illuminating the lifeless figure on the floor; Sherlock waited still. He watched as Molly, the village seamstress, found his body when she came to see how he’d fared on the Longest Night. He admired the way she recovered from the shock and proceeded to inspect the area for danger, taking note of the casting circle and stones around the body before alerting Headman Lestrade. He watched gravely as they carefully removed his body from the small house and was grateful they left his books, staff, stones and other tools of his trade as they had found them. Even though dead, he still felt a connection to his belongings and didn’t want anyone to disturb them. It was in that moment that he realized the Reaper was long overdue. A Reaper’s job was to collect the souls within hours, if not minutes, of death. It had been almost a full day and he was still connected to this plane, although in limbo. He cast his eyes around, looking for the reason he hadn’t yet been retrieved. His gaze landed on his staff, still on the floor where it had fallen, the stones glinting up at him in the fading light.

“STUPID!” Sherlock berated himself. Of course! Stupid, stupid, stupid!! Being dead must have played havoc with his mind if it had taken so long to remember those precious stones. Phenacite, the primary stone, anchored by the four elemental stones: lapis lazuli, amazonite, carnelian and ruby. Each carefully chosen for its properties and attuned to him. His life force and knowledge were tied to those stones and, should he somehow pass on before his time, they were to keep him tethered until he could be revived. Thankfully, that experiment was one that had succeeded. Now he just needed another mage to bring him back before his wards around the poplar forest fell. That would be the tricky part, as many mages didn’t believe it was a good idea to resurrect the dead. Especially since the horrors of the Wizard Wars and what happened there.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


The winter months dragged on, long and oppressive. The villagers took caution to protect the house. It had always lodged the village mage and it wouldn’t do to have it fall into disrepair. Other than to make sure it was vermin- and leak-free, no one entered the house. Because of the unusual circumstances of the mage’s death, they chose to leave the home in the state in which it had been when they’d found their mage’s body. A brief service had been held, but there had been few mourners. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the village baker and owner of the house, Headman Lestrade and a handful of others attended.

Most of the villagers had viewed the mage with a blend of awe and scorn. He’d been abrasive, distant, performed the duties asked of him with annoyance and had a too-sharp tongue that would lash out at all of them. Secrets of the village weren’t safe around him, and many had stopped seeking his aid except in the most dire of circumstances. They’d been grateful he left them well enough alone, kept up the wards of the poplar grove and perform the sacred rituals as the Wheel turned.  Now that Lleuad Gaeaf had passed, Imbolc was coming to an end and Ostara was almost upon them, many of the villagers wondered what would happen as winter let go of its hold on the slumbering forest. A dead mage was the least of their worries. How long would the wards continue to hold and what would happen to them if the darkness he’d been keeping at bay was loosed upon them? For all they’d disdained him, they had needed his talents. Many who passed close to the edge of the forest said they felt their skin begin to crawl and thought they heard faint whispers coming from deep within its tangled thickets.  

They were concerned about what would happen to their crops without a mage to bless the fields and perform the rituals and rites of Ostara. The full moon was three weeks away. They were far removed from the capital and any other major cities. Mages rarely came their way. They could only hope a new mage would wander into their little hamlet soon.

In the darkness of the forest -- in the heart of a withered, ancient apple tree -- the demon smiled to himself. Soon. Soon. He could feel the wards weakening. He sent tendrils out testing, enjoying the fear he tasted in the air. Sherlock had been thorough. It was one reason the demon, Moriarty, had admired him. Sherlock’s wards would continue to weaken until the next Longest Night. Moriarty could wait until then. His minion in the village would ensure that any mage who might wander through wouldn’t be able to cast effective wards against the forest. A shame it hadn’t worked with Sherlock but, then again, Sherlock had provided him with such a fun game-- while it lasted. Now he was dead. Game over. Time to find some new playthings.


	2. The Wandering Mage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many, many thanks to my beta, Batik and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin.

** Ostara **

 

John groaned and peeked his head out from under his blanket. Hoarfrost coated the ground, winter refusing to give up so easily to spring here. No wonder his shoulder ached. He sat up and tried to massage some of the soreness out of it. The pain would never truly be gone, spell scars were funny that way, but he could help it subside from dagger-like to a dull throb. He’d known, when he bedded down for the night, that it was possible for the temperatures to drop, but he’d chosen protection spells over warming ones. Leftover caution from the Wizard Wars and the training he’d received as a battle mage. Magic wasn’t as limitless as some people believed, and drawing on unnecessary reserves could cost you in the long run. So protection over warmth. Besides, he’d known how to build a fire since he was a wee one. John smiled as he packed up his bedroll and pulled on his boots, recalling his da patiently teaching him to strike a flint. He broke his fast and cleaned up, returning the small clearing as much as possible to the way he'd found it. Then he checked that all was well and released the protection spells over his small camp.

He’d been wandering for months now, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and what had been the frontline of the Wizard Wars. He knew he could never fully escape the horrors he’d experienced there. Time and distance seemed to be the best solution, though, even now, the nightmares had only lessened to once or twice a week. A mage should be able to trust his dreams. Dreams allowed insight into what was going on around you, but nightmares clouded that judgment, made it hard to decipher what in a dream was real and what was fabricated by the terrors of the mind. The nightmares were one of the reasons he’d left the army.

What he really wanted right now was a place far away from the cause of his nightmares; where his skills and talents were needed. Not his battle mage skills but those he’d cultivated alongside his battle training, the healer and protector skills at which he had become quite good. He had come across several villages in his travels, but none of them had felt “right” to him. So he’d graciously declined the offers to stay and kept moving. There would be other mages for those villages. There were plenty of castoffs from the war and someone else would be a better fit. Others who would love to call those communities “home”. John only hoped he could find a place that felt like _his_ home soon.

The landscape had turned hilly. The grass was slick with melted frost, making some of the steeper inclines more difficult. He paused to sit on a boulder in one of the shallow gullies, leaning his head against his staff. He was road weary and could only draw so much from the wood and stones of his staff before they needed recharging. It had been much too long since he’d performed a proper ritual, and both he and his staff were starting to feel the effects of the lack. The crystals were starting to dim and the wood looked dull. The full moon of Ostara was two weeks away; hopefully he could find a place to recharge by then. John looked up at the next incline and sighed.

“Maybe over the next hill,” he said out loud, even though there was no one to hear. He pulled himself to his feet and renewed his trek. One hill gave way to the next with occasional flats, and John pushed on throughout the day. When he finally came upon a narrow road he could have shouted for joy. He followed it through the valley, where he found the hills were fewer and the terrain smoother. The route meandered for a bit before it took him up one last hill, where he stopped to survey the landscape from its peak. There were outlying farms, fields bare and waiting for the spring planting. Small plumes of smoke rose from the houses that dotted the landscape. He could just make out the village, a cluster of buildings that looked cozy on the far edge of the flat land, almost cradled by a dense forest. Not far beyond the village was a small house, obviously outset for privacy but close enough that it wasn’t too far away. John felt a small tug in his chest at the sight. Perhaps this was what he’d been looking for all along. He smiled at the thought and descended the hill toward town.

It didn’t take long for him to be noticed as he made his way. John nodded at the farmers and families as he walked. Children ran ahead, passing word from house to house and making no effort to hide the fact. Hopeful faces peered out of windows and, as he approached the village, he could see a crowd forming. The tug in his chest intensified even as his instincts told him to be wary. There was something going on here that was out of the norm. It could be something as simple as crop blight, an illness or a hex; things he could deal with easily enough. Or it could be something much worse. John felt a thrill run through him at the thought and chided his adventurous side. He was trying to escape the “much worse” bit. He put on a comforting smile and approached the crowd.

A man stepped forward. He was taller than John but just as tan. His hair was greying in a way that would make most men, including John, envious. His eyes were serious but laugh lines told John the man would rather be cracking a joke or sharing a smile than discussing what was on his mind. Had they met under different circumstances, John thought, he might have asked him to join him for an ale. As it was, this man was obviously the village headman and there were other things to be discussed.

“You’re a mage?” The man started with the obvious question. John inclined his head toward his staff.  
“I am. And you are the headman of this village.” John replied, both hands gripping his staff as he awaited the reply.

“I am. Greg Lestrade. Most people call me Lestrade.” The headman smiled tightly as he extended his hand in welcome, but John merely nodded at the gesture.  
“John Watson, battle mage and healer. I fought on the front lines in Northumberland, so I hope you won't take offense at my not returning your handshake until I know that nothing of the Dark is about you.Do you mind if I check?”

It was common knowledge that Dark spells could be cast to sit just above the surface of the skin and infect anyone who came into contact with the person or animal carrying it. Lestrade stepped out more fully, opening his arms in silent agreement. This was something he’d obviously done before.

John also readied himself. He didn’t tell the man that, by agreeing for himself, he had agreed on behalf of the entire village. John closed his eyes and opened his mind to the world around him, slowly drawing on the power of the land, his staff and the magic held in the stones anchored there.

He reached out with his mind, seeking. First, he checked Lestrade, finding nothing of note. He continued, golden tendrils of his magic radiating out, unseen to the untrained eye. Among the villagers gathered, there was nothing more than the normal amount of spite, jealousy and anger that you’d expect to find in a town this size.

He sent the golden threads out farther. John found a fuzzy patch -- something he couldn’t quite figure out -- as he neared the forest. But when he reached the forest itself, something foul began to taint the exploring tendrils. It raced back along them, toward him, and John could see the Dark in his mind’s eye, a horrible stench and the taste of rotting fruit and meat reaching him before the Dark itself did. He jerked his coils of magic back to him as quickly as he could without damaging the village. His eyes shot open and he stared at Lestrade.

“What in Eirian’s name is in the forest?!” he asked in horror.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sat nursing an ale at the village tavern, listening to what Lestrade had to tell him. How, for as long as anyone could remember, the forest had harbored something evil. Various village mages over time had always kept up the wards and everyone knew better than to venture into the poplar forest. Every so often a young person, thinking he was invincible, would head into the woods to prove a point. Sometimes they would come back with horrible tales of a demon with dark eyes and a sing-song voice who would cast into the mind images of what he would do to them and his or her family. Others never came back. Why he let some go and kept the rest was anyone’s guess, although the previous mage claimed to know.

One piece of information around which John was having trouble wrapping his mind was how the previous mage apparently had died. According to Lestrade, the man was horrible at interacting with people but superior at what he did. An enchanter and scryer with some healing abilities, the mage shouldn’t have died the way he did. Lestrade had described the casting circle on the floor and the lifeless body they’d found within it. The mage, Sherlock, should have been just fine. They’d seen him cast before, conducting new experiments with magic when some thought he should have left well enough alone, but it was always controlled and, if unsuccessful, never deadly.

“You say you left the house as you found it?” John asked, curious.

“Except for his body, nothing inside was touched. The circle and stones are still there. Why? Do you think you could figure out what happened?” Lestrade’s face was serious in its set, though some relief showed through. A mystery like that would plague anyone’s mind.

“I honestly don’t know. I could try, but I’m neither an enchanter nor a scryer. I’d have to rely on what knowledge I have and any notes he may have kept. The first order of business really needs to be reinforcing the wards against the forest,” John replied as he sipped on his pint.

“Of course. Would you be willing then? We’re in desperate need of a mage and you’re more than welcome to stay. We could work out a fair exchange of services if you’d like.”

Lestrade asked eagerly and John’s heart lept at the idea. He felt it race at the thought. There was that element of danger here that he did so enjoy, yet the village itself seemed to be a calm and peaceful place. Still, he cautioned himself, best not to jump in without knowing what he was getting into.

“I’ll reinforce the wards and take a look at the mage’s house, but let’s wait and make sure both sides are satisfied before we make any hasty decisions. I think even those things can wait until tomorrow, when there’s proper light,” he said, casting a glance out the window at the waning sun.

John spent the night in one of the rooms above the tavern reserved for travelers. It was the first time he’d slept indoors in more than a month and it felt wonderful. Mary, the tavernkeep, had made sure he had the best room available. In it there was a bed, a basin, a desk and a banked fire.

Mary had lost her husband to the forest a year before the last mage had arrived, she had explained as she’d prepared his room, and she had a vested interest in keeping the forest’s evil at bay. She had brought his supper up, so he could avoid the many inquiries the villagers were likely to have for him. John thanked her for her foresight. She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling, as she left him to attend to her other patrons downstairs.

After he’d eaten his fill, John shed his travel clothes, leaving on only his undergarments and the elder wood whistle he always wore around his neck. He wrinkled his nose at the stench. He folded and stacked his clothes next to the basin stand before giving himself a perfunctory wipedown. He rested his staff against the headboard and sighed as he sank under the blankets. The bed was surprisingly comfortable and it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

☽☾

 _The moss was soft beneath his bare feet and sun spilled through the poplar leaves, dappled patches illuminating the foxgloves that lined the path. John walked, his green tunic and leather trousers making him seem more of a part of the forest than an intruder. He followed the meandering path through the poplar trees. The wind rustled through the leaves, an inviting birdsong accompanying the breeze. John smiled_ _;_ _this was a safe place, a sacred grove. How could the villagers think otherwise? Someone must have misinformed them or wanted them to think it was dangerous. He would have to convince them otherwise. Those people who disappeared obviously had wanted to leave. He paused to take in the beauty of the forest, inhaling the scent on the breeze. It was sweet, smelling of apple blossoms. Strange, he hadn’t seen any apple trees. He looked around, trying to find one, and noticed a red fox sitting on the path ahead of him, deep brown eyes watching him. It cocked its head at John, as if inviting him to follow. John set off after it and the fox darted back and forth as it led John deeper into the woods. There was a fluttering behind him and a loud caw suddenly sounded. John spun around. Behind him, eye level on a branch, was a stunning black raven. Its grey-blue eyes stared at him. It ruffled its feathers and jerked its head in the direction from which John had come. There was a low growl from the fox and the forest behind it grew dark. The raven cawed back angrily, dark clouds forming above the bird. John stood transfixed as the wind began to howl and came rushing from behind the fox, carrying with it the cloyingly sweet smell of decayed apples. Lightning struck the tree behind the raven, followed by a torrent of rain, purifying the air. John recognized a wizard battle when he saw one, even if it was between two animals. He also realized he was in the middle of the battlefield and the clashing powers were racing toward him, threatening to overpower him. He swiftly raised the whistle to his lips and blew. Shrill, piercing sound waves radiated from him, pushing back against the magic as he raised his protective wards, his staff suddenly in his hands._

☽☾

John awoke gasping, his whistle clutched in one hand, his staff in the other, protective wards cast around him here as surely as they had been in his dream; the stones still held a faint glow. His scar screamed at him, pain radiating down his left arm. It took John a minute to remember where he was. He mentally checked for danger and, finding nothing threatening, lowered his wards. He was accustomed to nightmares, but usually they were flashbacks to the war, of battles fought, friends dying and being reanimated to fight against him, and having to burn their bodies to ash to give them their final death. He’d usually wake up with that scent lingering in his nose.

This dream had been no flashback. No shapeshifter he’d ever met took the form of a fox or raven, and this dream felt specific to where he was now. John looked out the window, noting the position of the moon. It was still several hours before sunrise. He’d have to wait a bit to ask if Lestrade knew of any shapeshifters in the area.

John knew from experience that it was useless to try to go back to sleep, so he unpacked his bag. Finding a clean tunic and trousers, he took stock of his robes, stones and supplies, making sure they were all clean and ready for use. Once he’d taken care of that task and carefully repacked his bag, he sat at the desk and made use of the paper and ink he found there. He took up the quill and began to jot down all he could remember about his dream and its potential meanings. Not long after the sun rose, there was a knock on his door. He quickly folded the papers and stuck them in his bag.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Mary said when he opened the door. “Mrs. Hudson dropped off some of her famous sweet rolls for you. I’m sure you’ve had some fantastic pastries in your travels, but nothing compares to her baking. She was quite fond of Sherlock and hopes you’ll be able to find out what happened to him. I’ve put a kettle on if you’d like tea to help you wake up. The rolls and tea will be waiting downstairs.” She flashed him a smile and headed down the staircase next to his room, skirt swishing around her. John gathered his bag and staff, then followed her down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John licked his fingers. Mary had been right, nothing he’d ever had compared to the pastry she’d set in front of him with his tea that morning. He’d have to thank this Mrs. Hudson when he finally met her. Lestrade walked in and grinned when he saw John.

“I see Mrs. Hudson is already trying to bribe you to stay,” he said cheekily.

John chuckled. “She’s off to a good start. This town has a lot to offer. Pretty tavern keep, handsome headman, and a baker the palace would love to have. Might not need to be bribed.”

Lestrade flushed at John’s compliment and rubbed the back of his neck as John finished the last of his tea and rose.

“I’d like to have a look at the forest,” John said. “Are you ready?”

Lestrade nodded.

“That’s actually why I stopped by,” he said. “Thought you might be the type who would want to get started right away.”

John picked up his staff and bag, then inclined his head.

“Lead the way,” he said and followed the headman out the door.

As they walked, John asked Lestrade he knew of any shapeshifters in the area. Lestrade shook his head. There were very few magically inclined people in the village. And none who could do anything more intricate than simple finding spells. Shapeshifting was one of the more complicated talents of the mage-born, and such a talent would have been well known in the village.  
“Is there any reason to be worried about a shapeshifter?” Lestrade asked.

“I don’t know yet,” John answered truthfully. “I had a dream about a fox and a raven who seemed more human than animal.”

“We’ve never really had to worry much about foxes, and ravens only bother us during the harvest,” Lestrade shrugged as they reached the edge of the village. “Here we are. We don’t get much closer to the forest than this these days.”

They stared at the forest, black poplar trees looming tall. They grew in an almost straight line, running parallel to the village. The trees were just beginning to bud, tiny drops of pale green dotting the branches and limbs. The sun shone warm and bright against their backs but barely penetrated the dark and foreboding forest.

“Stay here,” John told Lestrade. He adjusted the pack on his shoulder, cast the first protective ward around himself -- a small circle, invisible to Lestrade, that encapsulated his body and bag -- and walked toward the forest’s edge.

He approached slowly. After both his experience during his search yesterday and his dream the night before, John viewed the forest more as a battlefield foe than a benign copse of trees. He stopped about fifteen paces from the forest. The entire walk from the village’s edge couldn’t have taken more than two minutes, but John had felt like he’d been watched the entire time. John surveyed the darkness as he looked up and down the formation of trees. Though he couldn’t see any creatures -- magical or otherwise -- from his stance, that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there. He dropped his bag and knelt, keeping his staff within reach as he pulled out his bag of stones. John selected several that suited his purpose, placed them in a small line in front of him, then stood. The line of stones served both to ground him and give him power from which to draw should he need it.

John raised his staff above his head and reached deep within himself, drawing on the reserve of power he held there, as he murmured a protection spell to reinforce the wards that were slowly fading around the forest. A light blue glow started at his feet, radiating out and down the full border of the forest before rising above the treeline, a visible wall of power. He pushed it forward so it brushed the edge of the forest. As soon as it touched the first tree, the wind whipped around him, causing his cloak to billow, and John heard the shrill, angry shriek of a fox. He immediately felt a push back against his spell, as if a force of nature was battling with him for control of the area. John gasped as the power of it hit him and the wall of power shimmered. He hadn’t felt anything like that since the front lines. He doubled his concentration and drew on the power of the obsidian and malachite stones at his feet. He raised his staff higher, the strength of the oak flowing through him, anchoring him to the earth. He pushed back against the wild power. The light blue wall grew steady again. The shrieking and wind died down as the wall solidified, semi-translucent before it disappeared as the wards fell into place. His cloak slowly fell around him as he lowered his arms, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t expected to find such a frightening source of power in this idyllic setting.

John walked back to Lestrade after repacking his stones.

“Take me to the mage’s house,” he said somberly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock heard the voices before they entered the house. Strange. There hadn’t been anyone near the mage’s house since the villagers had made sure that the house was in good repair. It was too close to the woods for most people to venture near it. As the voices got closer, he recognized one as Lestrade’s; the other was unfamiliar to him. He could tell by the timber of the voice that it belonged to a man. It was laced with concern, stress, and concealed excitement. But most importantly to Sherlock, the cadence of the voice told him that this new man was a fellow mage! Had he been a corporeal being instead of an unseen shade, Sherlock would have lept with joy; instead his excitement caused a small whirlwind in the corner of the living area. Finally! The mage whose searching spell he had felt the day before! The one who could bring him back so Sherlock could finish what he’d started.

The door clicked as Lestrade opened it. The headman stood in the doorway while the unknown mage entered the room. Sherlock ignored Lestrade in favor of the short, blond man who was cautiously examining the room. Tan, fit, tired. Leaned on his staff a bit more than necessary. His boots were dusty and worn but treated with the care of one who knows that well-tended footwear is important. Clothes inexpensive but comfortable, forest tones made to blend into his surroundings. One pack and bedroll spoke of efficiency and necessity. So this man was a wandering mage. Damn. He was probably here just to reinforce the wards and to try to determine what caused Sherlock’s death. Sherlock turned away in disgust. A moment later he felt the tingle of a spell.

This spell was different than the searching spell he’d felt the day before. That was a spell every mage knew and cast in exactly the same manner. Sherlock knew the mage had felt the Darkness in the forest yesterday, based on how quickly he’d pulled back his spell, so Sherlock hadn’t gotten a full taste of the man’s magic. Sherlock turned around again to see golden tendrils radiating from the man as he did a more in-depth search of the cabin than the one he’d done of the village the day before. Every mage’s magic comprised things that made up the individual mage. Sherlock’s brother’s magic was cool, tinged red and grey, crackled with electricity and felt like rain. Sherlock’s own had been purple and silver, smooth as smoke and cool like moonlight. This mage, his magic was a conflict of dark blue and golden sun, rough oak and smooth leather, and it burned white hot with a controlled fury. Sherlock immediately went from disgusted to intrigued. Never had he met a mage whose magic was such a balance of light and dark. The threads wound their way around his circle, weaving a tight net around his stones and staff -- cleansing and probing them at the same time. Then the threads expanded out in a radiating net, as if systematically searching for an enemy, and Sherlock realized what kind of mage the man actually was. Double damn! He had seen this type of spell used before when he had lived in the capital and, thus, closer to the battle lines. Only battle mages used that particular spell. A battle mage would be loathe to bring back someone who was dead. Having one’s fallen comrades reanimated to fight against you could make one wary about bringing someone back from the dead, especially an unknown mage. Well, Sherlock smiled, he’d just have to get acquainted with the new mage then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eirian is one of the deities I've created for this verse. The reader will learn more about her and her twin sister Braith in a future chapter.  
> Elder (wood)- Protection  
> Oak (wood)- Strength  
> Obsidian- Element: Earth, Use: Protection  
> Malachite- Element: Fire, Use: Will


	3. Dark or Light?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John meets the townsfolk and begins to clean out the former mage's house, more questions are raised than there are answers available,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many, MANY thanks to my beta, Batik, and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin.

_The demon grinned. Oh, he’d been right not to have his minion interfere with the new mage. When he’d first tasted those golden tendrils he’d been intrigued, so he’d ordered them not to do anything yet. He wanted to see what this new mage had to offer. When the mage had raised his protective ward around the forest, the demon had almost regretted his decision. He hadn’t counted on the man being that strong. But then he’d tasted the momentary hum of excitement that had run through the mage when the demon had pushed back. A thrill seeker, a mage with power, a mage who had experienced death on the battlefield_ — _the demon had tasted all those things in that moment; oh, this was just too tempting to pass up. Sherlock had been fun on the intellectual level; this mage could be fun on the power side. He sensed the mage in the house where Sherlock had died. The chance to discover what happened to the previous owner would be too tempting for any mage to pass up. And he knew exactly how to deal with this kind of mage. He’d still require his minion’s help, but in a different capacity._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John exited the house and let go a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He thought about telling Lestrade what he’d discovered when he’d examined the circle, stones, and staff — that the previous mage had been murdered — but decided against it. There had been a concealing spell, and a damn good one, cast on one of the mage’s circle stones. An ordinary granite stone had been made to look like obsidian. Without the protection of the obsidian, whatever the other mage had been doing had killed him. Lestrade had said he didn’t know of anyone in the village who could cast anything stronger than a finding spell. This was much more intricate than anything that simple. The searching spell he’d cast the day before only told him if anyone was of the Dark or the petty emotions on which the Dark could prey. It didn’t tell him if anyone was lying. People lied for honorable reasons all the time, and that could be true in Lestrade’s case, as well. Either Lestrade didn’t know his village as well as he should, or he was hiding something. John didn’t want to take a chance. He’d placed his trust in the wrong people before and he didn’t want to make a similar mistake. And he still hadn’t been able to determine what that fuzzy patch had been. The more John thought about it, the more he felt this small hamlet was a place that needed him. If he was honest with himself, he needed both the promised peace he'd find and the possible excitement of figuring out what was going on here.

Lestrade looked at him hopefully.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’m not sure exactly what happened here, but I have a few ideas. If you’re still looking for a village mage, I’d like to stay,” John replied, leaning on his staff.

Lestrade’s face lit up.

“Of course!” He quickly shifted to business mode. "What are your fees?"

“I don’t require much by way of payment. Simple exchanges of goods and services, a small fee for the monthly rituals; as I’d like to have some coin to spend at the tavern or elsewhere I can’t barter — and I’d like to take up residence here,” John said, waving his arm in the direction of the house. “Maybe I can study the former mage’s notes and figure out what he was up to that might have caused his death.”

Lestrade nodded.

“All of those sound fair. The town can pay you what we paid Sherlock every month. We’ll need to talk to Mrs. Hudson about you staying here, but I don’t think she’ll have any objections. At least you didn’t add in being left alone to work like he did.”

Lestrade grinned at the last part.

John chuckled.

“Sounds like such a sociable man,” he joked. “But I’d like to get to know the townspeople and farmers. Find out what their needs are, what problems they typically have from year to year, that sort of thing. I’d like to try to meet everyone before Ostara, if possible.”

“I can start the introductions tomorrow,” Lestrade said. “I need to get back to the village and tend to a few things. Did you want to head back to the tavern or would you like to meet Mrs. Hudson? She’s on my way and I could introduce you.”

“The sooner I can get settled and started, the better,” John answered. “I’ve been wandering long enough. I’m ready to prop my feet up in a place I can start to call home.”

“Let’s go then,” Lestrade said, heading off in the direction of the village.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As it turned out, John couldn’t move into the house right away. Lestrade had passed him off to Mrs. Hudson with whom he was immediately smitten and the elderly widow, in turn, with him. She tutted about him in her small kitchen above the bakery, insisting he eat more. She reminded him a lot of his gran from when he was a boy, flour on her sleeves and a warm smile that reached her eyes.

Mrs. Hudson had agreed for him to take up residence in the house without a qualm, asking only that he take proper care of her “dear Sherlock’s” belongings. John assured her he would treat them with the utmost respect. But she’d informed him the house needed a thorough cleaning and the bedding would need to be replaced, and _oh, dear, the pantry must be in a state_.

Lestrade gently reminded her that the cupboard had been emptied to prevent rodents, so that was one thing off her mind. John insisted he could handle the rest on his own. As he was leaving the bakery (with a basketful of Mrs. Hudson’s sweet rolls and a quick peck on his cheek) Mrs. Hudson directed him to the village seamstress to repair his travel-worn clothes. John could have done it himself, but Molly had been the one to find the previous mage’s body and he wanted a chance to talk to her. Molly, though soft spoken and a bit teary at the memory, had been very observant and John was impressed with how much she recalled about the memory. She told him what direction the body had been facing; that there had been no distinguishing marks that she had seen; his eyes had been open, though she found it odd that they hadn’t been glassy or dead-looking like she had seen in other bodies. John had to pause her a moment and ask for clarification. After all, a young woman such as herself shouldn’t be viewing dead bodies on a regular basis. She had giggled a bit at that. Her father had been the town undertaker and bodies weren’t a big deal to her. She often helped dress the dead when the family was too distraught. John nodded and she’d continued, all while mending the few rips and tears his clothes had gathered on his journey. He was both gracious and surprised when she offered to launder them, as well. She then turned him loose to find his way back to the tavern and request lodging until he could make the house a bit more habitable.

The next day, Lestrade introduced John to as many people as he could. Many of the townspeople were just happy there was a new mage and told him what problems they had that he could help solve. He also found out that most had little good to say about the former mage. There were a few whose distaste stuck out for him. There was Sebastian, who scoffed at the idea of needing a protective ward around the forest but was pleased that someone would be able to cast protective spells on his home and belongings. He appeared to mistrust most of the townspeople and didn’t seem to think too highly of the dead mage. Philip and Sally both had horrible things to say about the previous mage and seemed to doubt — or care — that John would be able to discover what had happened to his predecessor, but were otherwise friendly with him. There were a few who had some good things to say about the late mage, though. Irene, with her deep red lips and batting eyelashes, thought he was “sexy and brainy, such a tragedy”. Henry was one of the very grateful few who thought “Sherlock was the best and bravest man” he’d ever known. John found out from Lestrade after they left the young man’s home that Sherlock had prevented him from going mad after Henry’s father had died in the forest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John dropped off his pastries in his room and rejoined Lestrade in the tavern below for lunch. He waited until Mary had brought them their food and left before speaking. He wanted the headman’s opinion.

“Not many people liked this Sherlock fellow, it seems. Was he really that bad?” John needed to know. Not only would it affect how he proceeded with the townspeople but, if Sherlock were of the Dark and no one knew — though it seemed not many would have been surprised — he would need to be extra careful of the belongings in the house.

Lestrade shook his head.

“Sherlock could be a right pain, but he wasn’t a bad man,” Lestrade said. “He just wasn’t like the rest of us. No one knew what to do with him. And he didn’t seem to know when to keep his mouth shut. He could take one look at a person and know what they’d been up to, who they’d been with. And he’d blurt it out, not caring if someone would get hurt in the process. People don’t like having their dirty laundry aired. Still, he was good at what he did and cared about the end result. There were those of us who could see he wasn’t out to hurt anyone and that he just wanted to be left alone. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Henry, even myself, we all cared about him enough just to let him be. He was a good man, but even we didn’t know how to be his friend.”

John nodded. For all his solitary wandering, John knew what it was like to want to be left alone sometimes. But that still didn’t give John a concrete answer to his suspicions. He supposed he’d just have to find out on his own. He and Lestrade finished up their meal and headed back out to talk to the farmers who hadn’t been available earlier that day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, John began performing his new duties as the town mage and cleaning the house that he would soon call home. He blessed a few fields and cleansed several wells in the morning. The villagers seemed quite happy with his work and, if he didn’t smile as much as some of them would have liked, he at least was kind and kept their secrets to himself.

That afternoon he spent in the house. He opened the door and was overwhelmed at what he saw. The day before had mostly been to try and find out what had happened to the mage. He hadn’t paid the interior any real attention. John stood staring at the large room in the front of the house, taking it all in. Bookshelves covered almost every wall. There was a sofa in front of the window, a short table in front of that, a chair with a comfy-looking pillow faced the fireplace, and a small table sat to its right. The cupboard that he had been assured was cleaned to keep out the vermin sat against the back wall, a larger eating table was at an angle to the cupboard, and a small cooking stove sat next to the fireplace. In a curtained-off area near the sofa was the largest tub John had ever seen outside of one of the nobility’s homes in the capital. The man must have loved his bath. John shook his head at the extravagance before turning his attention to the actual mess of the place. He’d take care of the two other rooms later.

There were piles of books and notes scattered haphazardly about. Stones, pieces of wood, and various bottles of powders and liquids were everywhere. John assumed they had a purpose, because they were labeled with dates and times. He hoped that somewhere in all of the papers and notebooks — and really, how were there so many papers and notebooks? Those cost money — were explanations of why each thing was where it was. He’d hate to disturb a spell and have something backfire on him. He’d disturbed an unfinished spell oncein his youth and had barely dodged the flash of mage fire that had resulted. He left the casting circle, stones, and staff where they were until he could figure out what the mage had been working on. If they were tied in any way to any of the various other things scattered around the house, again, he didn’t want to suffer the repercussions of a disturbed spell. It was both exasperating and fascinating. Instead of cleaning up like he had planned, John found himself pouring over the books, texts, and notes left behind by the previous resident.

The man apparently had loved to read, or at least loved to have a seemingly inexhaustive amount of knowledge on hand. The shelves were crammed full of all manner of history and grimoire, alchemy, transformation, herbs and plants, basic spellbooks one would receive as an apprentice, elemental control, books about the Light and Dark and the twin sisters Eirian and Braith tied to those forces, spellbooks for both Light and Dark magic. The latter worried him. John was a mage of the Light, having battled the Dark forces during the war, and had dealt with his fair share of Dark mages in his day.

Did this mean the former mage had actually been attempting something Dark with his circle? Had the person who disguised the granite done them all a favor by ridding the world of Sherlock?

Curious, John grabbed the two books whose spines seemed most worn, sat down in the chair, and thumbed through the pages. One was a book of Light spells and lore, the other its Dark counterpoint. There were notes on almost every page, scratched hurriedly, sometimes in shorthand. One word popped out over and over — “WRONG!” — followed by a quick explanation of why the notetaker had thought so. John read and reread the first set of notes several times, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining what he was reading. Sherlock — the handwriting on the rest of the notes scattered around confirmed it was the same person — had taken one of the more complicated Light spells and broken it down to basic components. Instead of taking weeks to prepare the spell and waiting for the full moon, he had proved all you needed were the proper alignment stones and certain flowers. It was so easy when explained the way it was it the notes, it was so simple, it was ...

“Brilliant!” John heard himself utter out loud in awe.

And because balance was important, after all, John searched for the matching spell in the Dark grimoire. Sure enough, another “WRONG!” exclamation and Sherlock’s barely legible notes on how to cast it. He quickly looked back and forth between books, noting that Sherlock had done the same whenever he felt a spell was being explained incorrectly or something about the lore behind the stories was off. John found himself engrossed in the notes left in the books and, as he read, small utterances of “Amazing” or “Fantastic” would pass his lips.

Before he knew it, the light began to fade. John realized that, if he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t make it back to the village before dark, and the house was far from ready for him to sleep in. John stretched his sore shoulder, closed the books, and set them back on the shelf. Based on the notes in those two books alone, it was impossible to tell if Sherlock had been a Light or Dark mage, but John nonetheless found himself in awe of a mage he’d never had the chance to meet. He picked up his pack and staff and headed out the door.

As he turned to close the door he thought he saw something near the chair, a shadow of sorts. It was hazy, wavering in the dim light, but the form looked to be human. He rubbed his eyes and it was gone. Considering how close the house was to the forest and how tired his eyes were from reading all afternoon, John decided it was probably the shadow of a tree as the wind moved through the branches or a trick of the fading light. He closed the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock had watched the new mage as he looked through Sherlock’s old books and cringed when the man had found the book of Dark spells and lore. Surely he would get the wrong impression. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sherlock had waited for the inevitable disgust that would follow but, instead of throwing it away, the mage had opened both Light and Dark books. The first quiet utterance of “Brilliant” had been unexpected. Most mages didn’t believe in breaking tradition and insisted the old ways were best. This man seemed intrigued. When he’d opened the Dark book and found the matching spell, he hadn’t said anything but quietly took the books to the chair and began pouring over Sherlock’s notes. Each word of praise was unexpected and caused Sherlock to smile. He didn’t fail to notice, though, that those exclamations were reserved for the Light spells. Well, that was to be expected. He had yet to meet anyone who truly understood him.

The mage’s unusual magic had been the first thing to peak Sherlock’s interest; now, the fact that this man had not been turned off by Sherlock’s unique methods made Sherlock want to know more about him. When the man got up to leave Sherlock made his way over to the chair, noticing several blond hairs caught in the fabric. He reached out tentatively and brushed his noncorporeal fingers across them, just as the mage turned to close the door. The mage froze when he looked at where Sherlock’s shade hovered. Sherlock’s fingers stilled. Did the man see him? When he rubbed his eyes, Sherlock removed his fingers from the chair. The mage obviously didn’t see anything when he opened his eyes again and proceeded to close the door. Sherlock looked at the hairs and back at his fingers, shocked. Had his touching those hairs — hairs that were the mage’s — somehow triggered a way for Sherlock to be seen? Was it specific to the mage? More questions sprang to mind and he had no answers for them. Sherlock looked through the window, watching the man head toward the village and hoping he would soon return, along with the answers Sherlock sought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, SO many thanks to all of you for your patience on this chapter. Due to health issues, adjusting to the new medication, stress on the home front, and this chapter just giving me absolute fits, the timeline drug out way longer than it should have. Thankfully I'm already a good bit into the next chapter and it's flowing easier.   
> On a different note, because this chapter decided to take on a mind of it's own, the final chapter count is changing. I'm not sure what it will be yet, but it's looking like more.


	4. Trust Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a huge thanks to my beta, Batik96, and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin. Another huge thanks to all of my readers for their continued patience. Home life has changed and time has opened up in my schedule, so I'm hoping for more frequent updates again.

After treating a few of the ailments that had been plaguing some of the townsfolk, John returned to the house the next day. Having become so engrossed the day before in the books and notes left behind by Sherlock -- he’d started calling the man by his name instead of “the previous mage” sometime the night before -- John decided it was best to focus on the kitchen area and bedroom so he could actually move in and then tackle everything else once he lived there. He’d spent much of the night before trying to piece together who Sherlock had been based on the opinions of the townspeople and the notes in the books he’d read, and he still hadn’t been able to come to any sort of conclusion about the man other than he must have been a force to be reckoned with. Even so, he had found himself with a growing admiration for the man and regretting that he would never meet Sherlock to form his own opinion.

When he entered the house John hung his worn traveling cloak on an empty peg by the door. On a peg next to it, covered in a light layer of dust, was a luxurious black traveling cloak with red trim. It looked a bit forlorn, as if waiting for its owner to return. He fingered it gently before turning and heading to the back of the house. He didn’t want to get distracted by any notes that must be in other books and the rest of what he could only term as experiments, so he steadfastly ignored them.

“I’ll deal with you lot later,” he said half-jokingly when one of the pages fluttered as he walked by.

John headed straight to the back wall and paused. He’d seen the two doors the day before but hadn’t peeked in either. He chose the door closest to the kitchen first. His fingers tingled as he touched the door, alerting him to the remnants of a protection ward. It had been a strong one once, but it had faded, as happens to all spells if they’re not reinforced. He shook his hand at the sensation and opened the door. The room was dark, heavy curtains blocking the light from the only window. There was a heady smell of old leather, parchment, and ink, reminding him of the library in the capital, where he’d spent many hours poring over archaic tomes as an apprentice. He illuminated the crystal of his staff, casting a soft blue light throughout the room. More books lined the walls but, unlike the shelves in the main room, these books were old. John could practically feel the ancient magic radiating off of them. This had been Sherlock’s study. The heavy curtains prevented any light from seeping in and causing the books to fade or age too quickly. The back door was bolted shut, and John realized it must be the door to the mudroom at the back of the house. A cabinet containing things needed for purifying and recharging a mage’s tools sat next to the door, easily accessible. Settled against the window was a desk, stacked high with papers and journals. On it sat an inkwell and quills, and in the middle there was an open journal. John walked toward the desk, intrigued. The left page of the journal was filled with Sherlock’s handwriting and diagrams; the right had only one word written on it, “Yule”. This would have been the page on which Sherlock would have recorded what he was trying to do the day he died. John gently touched the page, wishing the other mage had documented what led up to that fateful night. Perhaps he had; John would just have to read the rest of the journal to find out. He reached up to grab the curtain so he could have better light to read by, but then drew back. He had come here with the goal of getting the house ready to live in. As badly as he wanted answers, he needed to get settled and prepared for Ostara. The villagers were depending on him. He could look at the journal later but, just to keep it and the study safe, he cast his own minor protection ward around it and the room before moving on.

Behind the second door was the hoped-for bedroom. Unlike the rest of the house, it was remarkably tidy. There were no notes, no experiments, and the bookshelf was a place not for books but for keepsakes, none of which was a cause for alarm. On the wall was a colorful picture illustrating the elemental alignments and properties of stones, and a rapier hung on the back of the door. On the table next to the large, well-made bed was a violin case containing one of the most beautiful instruments on which John had ever laid his eyes. A multitalented man, he thought. There was a basin stand with a mirror and comb in the corner facing the bed and a wardrobe along the same wall as the door. He set his staff down on the bed and opened the doors of the wardrobe. Inside John found an array of silk and fine cotton tunics in tones of purple, maroon, and stark white. There were black leather pants much finer than John’s brown ones and what appeared to be a long lounging robe of light blue, several fine-cotton grey undertunics and loose pants, all made for a taller man than he. Fine leather boots that matched the leather pants sat on the bottom of the wardrobe. They looked like they belonged in a nobleman’s wardrobe, not a country mage’s. John chuckled. Between the extravagant tub, the cloak, and the contents of the bedroom, John couldn’t help himself.

“You were a vain one, weren’t you?” he smiled affectionately. “I bet everything in this room cost more than I have made in my entire life. What were you doing way out here?” John mused as he closed the wardrobe doors.

He headed over to the large bed, intending to inspect the linens and bedding. If it were anything like the rest of the room, he probably wouldn’t have to worry about removing the tick and stuffing the mattress again. Sure enough, the linens were of the same quality as the clothing and there had been a preservation spell cast on the mattress so it didn’t even need airing out. He’d have to see what Molly would charge him to launder the sheets on a regular basis or else he’d need to find new ones that he wouldn’t have to worry about ruining with his basic laundry skills. If need be, he could always sell the linens. He lay down on the bed, testing the mattress, and found it even more comfortable than the one in the inn. He sighed as he settled into the mattress and realized he really didn’t have that much to do if he wanted to move in straight away. He’d thought the back rooms would have been just as much of a disaster as the main area, but he was grateful all he really needed to do was clean out the wardrobe and store the keepsakes. The cupboard needed restocking and the kitchen area cleaned. If he started this afternoon and asked around town for some cupboard staples this afternoon, he could move in tonight. Then he could tackle the disaster in the main room.

John knew he really should get up and head back into town to get the items for the cupboard, but the bed was too comfortable and the pillows downy soft. Slowly he slipped off to sleep.

☽☾

_John found himself on a stark and barren landscape. The ground was scorched; dry, white-grey ash spinning in tiny whirlwinds here and there. In the distance he could see crackling bolts of energy sporadically striking the ground. Gusts of harsh, dry air whipped at his face. He winced as he licked his lips, trying to restore some of their stolen moisture, and found them cracked and sore._

_He knew this scene. It was one he’d been in numerous times in the previous years. One he’d done his best to escape. This was not just any barren wasteland. It was a war zone. This land would never again be fertile, never again be home to any living creature. All that was left of it was death and the aftermath. Any trees or bushes were stunted and dead. All corpses turned to ash to prevent them from becoming reanimated. No bodies left to return to loved ones for a proper burial or release. No closure. This war-ravaged field was what he’d been trying to leave behind._

_Unlike the other battlefields, though, there was no sound. No moans of despair, no spell casting, no cries of the injured, just eerie silence and a strange pressure against his spine, as if he were being watched. He suddenly realized he had no protection. All he had on was a light linen tunic and cloth trousers; he didn’t even have boots to protect his feet. He felt naked and exposed without his staff and whistle. Not seeing anything in front of him, John slowly turned, surveying the world around him._

_Behind him, under one of the stunted trees, sat the fox. Perched farther up in the branches was the raven. The creatures from his previous dream. Recalling the Wizard Battle he’d narrowly avoided, a sudden realization hit him. Fury surged through John._

_“Did you do this?!” he shouted at them. “Did you destroy the forest over your petty battle? That’s all the war was! Petty disagreements between mages and the two Sisters who couldn’t get along. Lives were lost. People died needlessly over shallow feuds centuries old. You bastards destroyed a beautiful forest for what? Some trifling, unimportant disagreement that could easily be resolved if you were just mature enough to talk it out.”_

_John’s chest heaved in anger and frustration. He’d never dared utter those words out loud but, after everything he’d been through, he couldn’t hold them back anymore._

_The fox and raven glared at him menacingly. The fox slowly began advancing on him as the raven hopped down and out of the tree. As each animal moved, it slowly began to morph from animal to human, until all that remained of the animals were their heads on the bodies of men. They were dressed in long robes of grey and black, echoing the landscape, raven-man taller and more slender than his counterpart. The fox-man grinned at him and the raven glared, cocking his head in a way that shouldn’t be possible for a human neck. John wasn’t sure which of the animals spoke, because the sound seemed to come from the wind behind them._

_“Ah, dying,” came a sing-song voice, “you’ve lost more than your fair share to the Reaper, haven’t you, mage? Why does it bother you? Death. After all, it’s nothing more than the turning of the Wheel. People die every day from illness, old age, accidents. Dying is what people_ do _.” The voice drew out the last word, adding more than a hint of malice to a seemingly innocent statement._

_“Did caring about them help save your friends?” a deep, sonorous voice asked. “It might have helped a few, but did you really save them in the end? How many of them are torn from a night’s slumber screaming, the smell of burned flesh still in their noses, ears ringing with the screams of the dead? What kind of life is that?”_

_John jerked at that, the statement hitting so close to home, an echo of his own life in that voice._

_“Oh, look,” the wind carried the sing-song voice again as the creatures advanced, “I believe you hit a nerve. Poor mage doesn’t sleep well, does he?”_

_“No,” came the deep answer on the wind, “perhaps he needs help.”_

_John found himself rooted to the spot, unable to speak …_

☽☾

There was a pounding on the front door of the house and John bolted up, awake but covered in a cold sweat and panting. He stared at his reflection in the mirror across from the bed and felt a shiver run through him at what he saw. Hovering behind him was the same odd shadow he’d seen the day before, this time more thoroughly defined. It was in the shape of a man much like the raven’s form had become. John turned and grabbed his staff, which he had kicked onto the floor in his panic. When he looked back in the mirror, the shadow was gone. John did his best to slow his racing heart and calm down. The knocking on the front door grew more insistent.

“John?” came the muffled female voice on the other side and he decided it best to get rid of the person at the door, just in case there was something here that could possibly cause her harm. John was still unsure what had just happened in his dream, other than it was a bit not good.

He opened the door and found Mary standing on the other side, holding a bundle.

“Molly came by the tavern to drop these off for you. I told her you were probably here and offered to bring them by. There was no one at the tavern and I could use the exercise. I tried the back door, since it was closer, but something was in the way and I couldn’t knock.”

Mary smiled up at him but, as soon as she saw his face, concern flashed in her eyes. “John? Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

John smiled stiffly at her, “Thank you, but no, I managed to fall asleep and had a nightmare. It happens from time to time, remnants of being in the war.” He took the bundle from her and tried to soften his expression. “The back door leads to what apparently was Sherlock’s study and I put up a protective ward to keep some of those old books safe.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Old books! I love old books! I used to sit for hours in the library before I moved out here with Frank. Do you think I could borrow one when you’re done? Or even just look at one here?” she asked softly.

John almost smiled at that. He could understand the appeal of books, especially old ones, but he didn’t know what lurked in the house, let alone the ancient magic tomes, so he was hesitant to agree. “Let me see what kind of condition they are actually in. They may not even be able to be handled.”

Mary nodded, understanding. “Are you coming back to the tavern tonight? Your room is waiting.”

John shook his head. “This place actually isn’t in as terrible a state as I originally thought. I just need to get some food for the pantry, clean the pots, bring in some firewood, and I’ll be good to stay here tonight. If you’ll give me a minute to grab my things, I’ll walk back to town with you so I can pick up the food and things promised me by some of the people I’ve already helped. Wait here.”

Mary stood in the doorway while John set the laundry bundle in the bedroom and gathered up his bag and cloak. He kept an eye out for the shadowy figure while doing so.

“This place looks a right mess,” Mary said, crinkling her nose as she looked around. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with this?”

John ushered her out the door, locking it behind them.

“No thanks. I’ll manage.”

She shrugged and they set off for town.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John. Sherlock finally had a name. When the mage had been thrashing about on Sherlock’s bed, obviously trapped in a nightmare, Sherlock had wanted to be able to shout, to scream at him to wake up, but he didn’t know what to call the man. And then he’d cursed himself, realizing even if he did know the man’s name, the mage wouldn’t have been able to hear him. He’d opted for the next best thing, hoping that what he’d learned yesterday after touching those strands of hair from the man he now knew was called John would carry over; he tried a new experiment. Sherlock had hovered over John and placed an immaterial hand on his forehead, hoping to be able to somehow connect with him; he was unexpectedly sucked into John’s dream. Sherlock hadn’t managed to catch the whole dream, but what he had seen and heard made him furious. Moriarty, damn that bastard of a demon, had infiltrated John’s dream – How had he done that? -- and was pretending to be Sherlock, had stolen Sherlock’s voice and his avian form, all while presenting himself to John, as well. Moriarty was working on tainting John’s view of Sherlock before Sherlock even had a chance. At the same time, he also was making himself less appealing to John. Why would he do that? The demon wanted to escape his prison. Why not try to convince a Light mage to help him? Why not trick the mage into helping him? Moriarty enjoyed games. What game was he playing now?

Sherlock watched from the window as John and Mary walked back toward town. John had said he’d be back tonight. Sherlock settled down to wait for his return, mulling over everything he’d observed from John’s dream. And, most importantly, how to get John to trust him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The limbs of the ancient apple tree shivered at the demon’s anger. Inside, Moriarty railed against the walls of his prison, his vaporous form unable to escape the archaic spell that held him. How in Braith’s name was Sherlock alive?! He had seen the dead body for himself as he’d taunted the mage’s soul. His minion had seen the body buried. The man was dead! So how had Sherlock managed to encroach on the dreamscape into which Moriarty had lured John’s subconscious? He’d felt the supposedly deceased mage but had not seen him. And they had both been pushed out of the dreamscape when John woke up. So the demon hadn’t been able to find out anything more about wow Sherlock came to be there. He finally calmed down, the limbs of the tree sighing in relief. The demon had a new puzzle to figure out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to start speculating. You won't get any answers from me, of course, but I love to see how you think!


	5. From the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Batik, and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin, for their feedback. It was so valuable for this chapter.

John stood and stared at the items surrounding him. When he’d stopped by to let Mrs. Hudson know he’d be moving into the house that evening and he just needed to pick up a few things for the cupboard, he hadn’t realized that one of the villager’s sons was there picking up the family’s bread order. Before he knew it, the young boy had dashed out to spread the word. By the time John had finished afternoon tea with his landlord -- she had insisted after all -- many of the townspeople had showed up with various things they thought he’d need.

“Really, I only needed a few items,” John told Mrs. Hudson quietly. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage to carry all these things out to the house. I haven’t even done anything for most of these people yet.”

“Welcome to being a village mage, dearie,” she tutted kindly at him. “They know it’ll be their turn soon enough and they’re just glad to have you here.”

Not only were there staple pantry items such as salt, pepper, sugar, and tea (thank Eirian!), but meat, flour, eggs, and milk. Then there were the things he didn’t need but appreciated: honey, a flagon of ale, a teapot and cups, and someone had dropped off an axe. Molly dropped by with an extra set of blankets. He’d taken the time to ask her then about the sheets and she had told him it wouldn’t be a problem at all to launder them if he could possibly enchant her thread to keep it from breaking.

Mrs. Hudson had even given him a few of her meat pies, biscuits, and some bread to take with him.

“Where am I even going to store the items that need a cold box?” he asked her.

Shaking her head at him, she smiled, “Did you not see the creek that feeds the well? It’s always cool and there’s a storage box in the bend nearest the back door.”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least. But now I’m left with the question of how to get all this back to the house. If I have to make two trips, I won’t have time to split wood for the fire.” John sighed. “I might be spending one more night in the tavern after all.”

“Well, since he decided it was his duty to spread the word,” Mrs. Hudson reached behind the flour barrel, smiling, and pulled out the boy who had been hiding there, “Archie here can help you. I’ll let your mother know what you’re up to.” She went to gather a few baskets to start packing up the items.

Archie beamed up at John.

“My mum says you fought in the Wizard Wars! Was it ‘citing? Did you kill anybody?! Can you teach me? I already know how to zap bugs. Sherlock taught me so I could keep them out of my dad’s storage area. He wouldn’t teach me how to zap the mice, though. Said then he’d be out of a job. I liked him. He didn’t talk down to me. Said I was just as much a person as anyone else and ‘should be treated as such’.” The boy had puffed up and done what John could only guess was an imitation of the mage Archie was so enamored of.

John had been taken aback by the boy’s initial questions but had to smile by the end. This was a side of Sherlock he hadn’t heard of before, a more understanding side. John had to wonder if he was like that with all the children of the village or if there was just something special about Archie.

“Your mum’s right. I was in the Wizard War. It’s not something I really like to talk about,” John answered, watching as the boy’s face fell, “but I am more than willing to answer your questions about spells, stones, and whatever else you might wonder about magic. If you’d like, after Ostara, we’ll see just how much magical ability you have. Then we’ll figure out what I can and can’t teach you.”

Archie grinned at that. Before he could start asking questions again, Mrs. Hudson returned with the baskets.

“Now then,” John said to him. “How about you help pack up this stuff and we’ll head out to the house.”

Mrs. Hudson and Archie set about packing the baskets while John made up a makeshift sling for the axe. Then he and the boy headed out, Archie taking the lighter baskets and babbling away about the bugs he’d already zapped. Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at the pair as they departed.

Once at the cottage, John quickly found the cold storage box in the creek and packed away the eggs and meat. He skimmed off some of the cream into one of the cups before packing the rest of it away with the eggs. He’d have one of Mrs. Hudson’s meat pies that night for dinner and wanted cream for his tea. He left the axe by the wood pile and then they headed to the front door to drop off the rest.

As soon as they walked in, Archie noticed the casting circle, stones, and staff still on the floor. He dropped his baskets and made to dash over to it, but John managed to grab his tunic just in time.

“Is that where he died?” the boy asked, fascinated.

“Archie, remember how I told you I’d answer your questions about magic?” John asked him somberly, kneeling down to his level. Archie nodded. “You haven’t asked this question yet, but I’m going to go ahead and answer it for you. Is magic dangerous? Yes. Even simple spells carry risks. Like when you zap a bug. Every time you zap or use any sort of magic, you use up a little bit of the energy inside you. You’re young, you recharge quickly because you’re outside in the sun a lot and like to play in the water, you rest hard because you play hard, and you eat when you’re hungry. Unless you zap a lot of bugs at once you probably won’t even feel the effects of using magic.

“But magic isn’t an inexhaustible well of power for people and mages to draw on. That’s why we use stones and staffs. Each stone has a special purpose, each staff unique to each wizard. They can help to anchor and channel our power. But if you use too much power too fast, without taking care to recharge yourself or your tools, it can cause more harm than good. Does that make sense so far?”

Archie nodded, his eyes wide, so John continued.

“Big spells, ones that require casting circles like that, require an enormous amount of concentration and energy. A mage puts both a lot of time and a lot of himself into that sort of spell. If something goes wrong, if there is too much power drawn at once that the mage isn’t anticipating, or something is off, and the mage casting it doesn’t realize it, terrible things can happen. In this case, a mage -- Sherlock -- died. Now there could be residual magic, power, or something else trapped there. That’s why I haven’t touched it yet.”

John stopped, knowing that anything he said was likely to make its way back to the village, and he still wasn’t ready for anyone to know about the disguised stone.

“Are you afraid?” Archie asked him.

“A bit,” John answered him honestly, “but I would be very foolish not to be. That doesn’t mean I won’t try to find out what happened to Sherlock and make the area safe again.”

Archie cocked his head, taking in John’s words. “Promise?”

“I’ll do my best,” John said, standing, not willing to promise the boy something he wasn’t sure he could follow through on. “Thanks for your help today, Archie. I can get these baskets unpacked and you should get home. I’ll see you later.” John stepped out of the house and watched the boy jog back toward the village, making sure he made it back across the grassy field safely. He knew Archie had grown up around the forest and should be wary of it, but after everything John had experienced thus far, he just wanted to make sure the boy was safe.

John went back inside to put away everything they’d brought with them before heading to the back of the house to check on the firewood. The days were warming up slowly, but the evenings still held a chill and he’d want to have enough wood to keep the house warm, not just enough for a cooking fire. He peeked in the mudroom to check the storage pile but didn’t expect to find anything. It most likely would have been removed to prevent mice or other creatures from making their home in it. Sure enough, there was only bark and dust where the storage pile had been. He headed outside and set his staff down by the door before hauling several logs from the wood pile over to the chopping block. He grabbed the worn handle of the axe and gave it several test swings before he started his chore. It was well balanced, the handle sturdy and the blade sharp. It swung effortlessly into the chopping block, a resounding and satisfying thud each time it made contact. He was grateful he’d been given one that had seen some use. John didn’t relish the idea of blisters from trying to break in a new handle; his hands were calloused enough from his staff. He leaned the axe against the chopping block and stripped off his tunic. He had already worked up a sweat and didn’t relish the fabric clinging to him while he was chopping wood. He picked up the first log and set it into place. Taking careful aim, he swung the axe and split the log cleanly in two. The halves fell on either side of the block. John picked up one and swung again, slicing through the air and the chunk of wood. It didn’t take him long to settle into a rhythm, pulling the axe over his head and putting enough force behind each swing to split the wood into smaller pieces. As the wood piled up, John found some of his inner tension from the day’s events mellowing out, each _swish-thunk_ of the axe helping to ground him and refocus him on the task at hand.

Later that evening, John was even more grateful for the blankets Molly had supplied. After starting the fire, John had headed back out to the well. He’d realized there was no way -- without water -- to rid himself of the sweat and debris now clinging to his body, and he was too dirty for the basin to do a complete job. Drawing up a bucket, he’d quickly doused himself with the water and done a quick rub down before heading back into the mudroom and stripping out of his soggy trousers. The water from the well had done its job, but it’d been frigid, to say the least. He sat in front of the fire wrapped in one of the larger blankets and seriously considered making sure there was hot water for a bath next time. The tub may not have been something he would have indulged in purchasing on his own, but he could definitely see the benefit of having one available here. The ache in his muscles and shoulder could be relieved by a nice long soak and he could avoid the shock of dumping a bucket of icy water from the well over him to clean up.

From his seat, John stared at the circle Archie had been so curious about earlier. He had hoped to read Sherlock’s journal tonight, possibly find some clue as to what that circle had been for, but John found he barely had enough energy to eat dinner and bank the fire. With a wave of his hand John extinguished the lights in the living area, leaving the room bathed in the light of the banked fire and waxing moon. Damn, he needed to rest! Ostara would be here before he knew it, and he couldn’t conduct a proper ritual if he didn’t recharge. Hopefully he’d sleep peacefully tonight. John yawned and stretched as he stood up, the plaid blanket slipping a bit. He tugged it tight around him and went to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank the Sisters! John was finally going to bed. Sherlock had waited impatiently the rest of the day for this opportunity to rise again. Granted, he hadn’t minded the distraction John had provided. Sherlock had been able to watch from the bedroom window as John stripped down and chopped wood. It turned out that shapeless tunic hid quite a bit. Sherlock had known John wouldn’t have much fat, due to how long he had been wandering, but he hadn’t expected him to be so fit. John’s arms and chest were toned, and he definitely wasn’t pudgy around the middle. The muscles in his arms were so well defined that Sherlock had watched, fascinated, as they moved and flexed with each swing of the axe. He’d been mesmerized by John’s sweat-slickened torso, bits of debris landing here and there as the man worked at his task seemingly effortlessly. When John had returned to the well after starting the fire, well, Sherlock was very glad his body was nonexistent, because its reaction probably would have embarrassed him. He had enjoyed the way the setting sun’s light had reflected off the water as it streamed down John’s chest and back, the sight of John quickly scrubbing the fine bits of wood out of his hair and off his body, the water causing the trousers to cling tightly to John’s lower half. When John had stripped down back inside cottage, Sherlock had received quite the eyeful. All of it had caused Sherlock’s mind to go blank for a moment and he’d felt an unfamiliar heat in his chest and groin. If he’d been able to have an erection it would have been a raging one. Even after John had wrapped himself in blankets and settled in by the fire, Sherlock had to make himself tear his gaze away and calm down.

Rarely in life had Sherlock found himself attracted -- let alone _physically_ attracted -- to anyone. He had to wonder if this was actual attraction or just a manifestation of his hope that this mage would bring him back. He had no other option, no other choice, and if John destroyed the staff, Sherlock would be gone forever. He’d been very fortunate that the other mage hadn’t acted rashly. Sherlock hadn’t been able to tell if that was because the man was more curious or cautious. If John had only listened to himself earlier that day when he was explaining magic to Archie, he would have realized he’d given himself the answer to what he’d seen after his dream, Sherlock’s shade in the mirror. So, while John had proved to be intelligent in some areas, in others he was just as dense as most other mages. Sherlock sighed in frustration and waited for John to fall into the stage of sleep where dreams happened. At least now he knew he had a way to communicate with the man who was his last hope.

☽☾

_John blinked at the brightness around him. Nothing but white and light as far as the eye could see. It stretched out and around, completely encapsulating him. It reminded him of the morning after a snowfall, crystalline and silent. John turned, looking around him, and noticed a dark shape in the distance, moving calmly toward him. Not knowing what it was nor what would happen if he took a step, John stood with his staff at the ready and waited for it to reach him._

_As the shape came closer, John realized it was a man. Slowly, the stranger’s features became distinguishable. He was taller than John and slender, his hair and clothes a dark shock of color in the pristine environment. The hair was curly and unruly but suited the man. His face reminded John of a painting he’d once seen depicting the Fae, those beautiful, feral creatures rarely seen by humans. The man’s cheekbones were sharp, his eyes the color of aquamarines, and his mouth almost perfect. His maroon tunic fell open at the throat and his black trousers were tight, accentuating his long legs. The clothes looked familiar, although the man did not. But when the man reached him and finally spoke, John knew exactly who he was and shifted his staff in between them, defensively._

_“Hello, John,” came the deep voice from his earlier dream, but without the malice it had held before._

_“Hello, Sherlock,” John answered warily. “I’d say, ‘fancy meeting you here,’ but this isn’t the first time you’ve invaded my dreams.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened briefly in surprise before he smiled at John. He paced a slow, graceful circle around John. “Good work, John. You’re more observant than most. I dislike the formality of introductions anyway.” He waved a dismissive hand and continued. “But that was not me in the dream you had earlier. That_ thing _you saw was the demon of the forest. He is called Moriarty and he is the reason for the circle you find so interesting on the floor in the other room. Yes, I was in your dream, but only at the end. I was trying to wake you from your nightmare. When I touched you, that was when I was sucked into your dreamscape.”_

_John turned as Sherlock paced, never letting the man out of his sight. One of the first rules of combat: Never turn your back on your opponent. His eyes narrowed at the man’s last statement._

_“When you touched me? You’re dead. You can’t touch anything. All things considered, you shouldn’t even be here. I never met you while you were alive. So how do I know you’re not just some figment of my exhausted mind ... or the demon playing games?”_

_Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at him._

_“You were a battle mage and a damn good one. Probably had the potential to be one of the best, but you were – are – a Healer. After the front lines you left the city you loved because you couldn’t deal with the nightmares that being so close to the front lines caused. You went searching for a nice, quiet, peaceful village, but every time you found one, it didn’t feel right. Then you came across this seemingly peaceful village and found it more dangerous than any you had encountered before. Now, why would you stay if you were looking for an escape from anything that might cause those nightmares?”_

_Sherlock advanced, closing the space between them, until there was nothing between them but John’s staff, crystals flaring in defense, the light reflecting bright in Sherlock’s eyes, dark in John’s._

_“You are a thrill seeker, John. Boring life never suited you. Even as a child, I’m sure you were the one climbing higher than you were supposed to, pushing the boundaries to see what you could get away with, just to get that rush. As an adult you’ve tried to be a good man, tried to ignore that sensation, but you can never deny it. The rush of casting a powerful spell, the thrill of being called upon to defend, that element of danger always_ right there _. You love it. This village offers you what you think you want -- peace and quiet -- and what you need -- that element of danger, the thrill you get from it.”_

_John exhaled sharply, the woosh of air caused Sherlock’s curls to stir, they were standing so close._

_“Very good, all of that.” he countered. Sherlock smiled. “But,” John continued, “you’re in my head. It’s very easy for you to know all of that if you’re a figment of my mind, or to rummage around and find all of that if you’re the demon. You’re going to have to do better if you want to prove to me you are who you say you are.” John took a step back and studied the vision in front of him. “You’re wearing clothes I found in the wardrobe. You don’t have a staff, nothing to protect you, so you’re either brilliant to come at me unarmed or you’re hiding something. You look like every man’s wet dream and every woman’s desire, so you could very easily be the demon playing on my loneliness. Again, you’re going to have to do better if you want me to believe you are_ the _Sherlock who used to live here. AND, you’ve invaded my dreams yet again. You’re not doing yourself any favors. You know how important it is for a mage to recharge.” John felt his anger rising, “So do me a favor and get out of my head and let me rest in peace.”_

_He raised his staff, physically ready to push Sherlock out of his dream. Before he could do so, Sherlock stepped back quickly and raised his hands. “You want proof? Let me tell you how to find it.”_

_John paused and Sherlock continued._

_“Three things. You probably noticed there were no mage’s robes in the wardrobe. Molly has them. My magic was rich purple and bright silver. You’ll know them when you see them. Under the violin, there is a secret compartment in the case. In it, there is a letter from my brother when we were younger. You probably knew of him. His name is Mycroft Holmes. And lastly, the journal explains the circle. I needed to do the spell on the Longest Night, because that was when the power was most easily accessible.” He inclined his head, giving John the nod of respect due to a fellow mage. “Now, I will let you rest.”_

_Sherlock stepped back, and John’s dream went from bright white to peaceful darkness._

☽☾

The rest of John’s night was spent in a deep, dreamless sleep. Sherlock’s, on the other hand, was spent full of restless drifting. As soon as he had seen John in the dream, Sherlock knew he’d have to be careful not to alarm him. The man’s defenses were up and he was wary. The fact that John had recognized Sherlock right away was a pleasant surprise. Sherlock had thought to try to explain what had happened in the dream earlier in the day, but John was having none of it. Then John had countered with a brilliant deduction of his own. Stupid! Sherlock berated himself over and over again. He should have realized John would need actual proof. Sherlock had offered it up. Three things, three reasons to start building that trust he so desperately needed from John. If he couldn’t get the man to trust him, there was no hope of convincing John to bring Sherlock back. Under normal circumstances -- against a well-rested mage -- he would have stayed, pushed until John believed him. But Sherlock could tell John hadn’t yet recovered his energy drained by the war, that his travels had provided distance from the front lines but not rest -- physical or spiritual. He saw that the man was close to a breaking point -- and the idea of a broken John was something that tugged at Sherlock’s heart in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the delay. I know you're probably tired of hearing that. We had a situation occur that prompted us to decide to move on short order. I've been packing and moving things over the last two weeks. I am forever grateful for your continued patience.


	6. Proof in the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone for their patience. The move went well and things are starting to get settled. I hope this chapter has been worth the wait.
> 
> As always, many, many thanks to my beta, Batik. Her expertise in fabric came in especially handy for this chapter.

John woke late the next morning, the sun already having been up for a couple of hours. His body was still sore from its exertion the day before, but he felt well rested and recharged. He lay there a few more minutes, enjoying the luxurious bed before he sat up and stretched, giving his shoulder its customary morning massage. Then his gaze fell on the violin case still resting on the table and he stilled as the memories from his dream came rushing back to his waking mind. John exhaled sharply and ran his hands over his face in disbelief. He looked up at the mirror facing the bed and found the same shadow reflected in it that he had seen upon waking the day before. Either his mind was playing tricks on him or he could just make out a silhouette -- the same as the day before but slightly more defined -- of a face and hair that reminded him of the Sherlock from his dream. As he watched it, the shade drifted back and forth between the bed and the violin case.

“Shit!” John exclaimed. He recalled his nudity the night before, cursed again and made sure at least his lower half was still covered.

“Eirian, give me strength,” he muttered under his breath. He watched the shade as it drifted back and forth, seemingly agitated, in the sunlight. “Tea first. Then I’ll look at your bloody violin case and journal,” he muttered at the mirror, since he could see the shade better there. The almost face seemed to frown at him. “My house, my body, my schedule. I need tea and to use the privy so, if you don’t mind, kindly make yourself as scarce as possible.”

John watched as the shade drifted through the door toward the living area before he got out of bed to relieve and dress himself.

When John entered the living area, the shade hovered next to the circle, its features once again hard to make out in the morning sun. He ignored it and headed outside to dump the chamber pot. John noticed that the shade didn’t follow him outside and breathed a sigh of relief. At least the damn thing seemed to be containing itself to the house. He took his time and made an extra trip to draw water from the well for his tea. He needed a few minutes to come to terms with the fact he wasn’t alone in his house and that the shade had probably been there the whole time. Whether it _was_ Sherlock remained to be seen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was, by nature, not patient. So this forced impassivity as John went about his mundane morning tasks made Sherlock restless. He had been in limbo for so long he was practically vibrating to move forward. He was thrilled that John could now see him without Sherlock needing to touch John. That was an interesting development. But it just added to Sherlock’s agitation. He was beyond tired of this form and ready to come back. Not only because he was ready to be a living human again, but because he knew how dangerous the demon in the forest was and it needed to be destroyed, not just contained. He and John could do that together, he was sure of it. And John wanted to have _tea_! Didn’t he realize there were more important things in the world than tea? Sherlock paced -- as much as a shade can -- back and forth in front of the hearth while John sat at the table, having tea and a slice of bread to break his fast.

There was a _thunk_ on the table and John stood up. “I’m going to see Molly first. I need a bit of air and you’re too restless for me to think straight,” he said as he walked toward the door. “When I get back, I’ll need to cleanse and recharge my stones and staff. I’m not ignoring you but, based on everything that’s happened; I need to make sure my tools are in working order. I’ll look at the note and journal while they’re going through the process.”

And with that, John threw on his cloak, grabbed his staff, and was out the door before Sherlock could react.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John walked the now familiar path to Molly’s shop. He’d been thinking as he sat at the table. Everything the Sherlock in his dream told him could have been known by the demon. It was very easy to tell John certain things that would convince him that whatever he was seeing wasn’t a figment of his mind, but none of them was absolute proof that it wasn’t a demon. So John had come up with his own plan. A demon would not let a mage recharge his tools. That would mean the mage was at his full strength, and a demon would rather strike a weak opponent. True, the image in his head had backed away and given John the rest he so greatly needed, but that also could have been a ruse. The rest of the day would tell him if the shade was friend or foe.

He was grateful that Molly’s shop was on the edge of town, because he didn’t feel like interacting with too many of the townsfolk today. The ones he did see smiled and waved in greeting. He waved back and exchanged brief pleasantries with the few who stopped to talk, making sure to thank those he knew had contributed to his cupboard and belongings the day before and promising to repay their kindness in the near future. Molly greeted him with a tired but grateful smile when he walked in her door. She was just finishing up with one of the men John remembered meeting earlier that week.

“Mage!” Sebastian exclaimed when he saw it was John who had entered, his tone more threatening than welcoming, “I thought you were going to come by my home to cast those spells you promised. Where have you been? Surely blessing fields and curing minor maladies doesn’t take precedence over protecting people’s belongings?”

Molly gasped. John’s posture immediately changed from relaxed to defensive, drawing himself to his full height. He had been wary of the man before, but his wariness changed into intense dislike in an instant.

“I wasn’t aware that one person in a town was more important than anyone else.” John’s voice was cool. “Fields provide food for everyone, and the people working them need to be well to help make sure you have food on your table. Your belongings have been safe for this long; what’s a few more days until after I’ve had a chance to rest and recharge my tools? I’ve only been here a short time and my tools haven’t been recharged since the last town I was in.”

Sebastian scoffed.

“Why would you need to recharge them? You’ve barely done anything since you’ve arrived. I thought you were more powerful than that, a ‘ _battle mage_ ’,” he sneered. “What good is a weak mage? If you expect my share of your wages, I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. You should have been settled and ‘recharged’ by now. You have until tomorrow to cast those spells or I’ll withhold this quarter’s share allotted to you.”

Sebastian grabbed his basket from Molly and stormed out, slamming the door.

John looked at Molly, shocked.

“I got the feeling he was an arsehole, but I didn’t think he was that much of a dick.” Molly’s cheeks tinged pink as she tried not to laugh but failed.

“Pardon my language.” John apologized. “How do people in this town put up with him?”

“We generally only interact with him when we have to,” she shrugged. “He’s sort of a recluse. He doesn’t do much to contribute to the town other than paying his taxes. No real job to speak of but he’s one of the few people in this town to receive packages when the post runs. It’s strange.”

“This coming from the lady who helps dress the dead,” John said with a smile so Molly would know it was meant affectionately. She giggled.

“Speaking of,” John said, “I was going through the wardrobe, trying to find a place for my clothes, and noticed that there were no mage’s robes in it. You said Sherlock was wearing his robes. Did you happen to keep them or was he buried in them?”

“His clothes were always so expensive; it was a shame to bury him in any of them. But I’d always heard there was something special about a mage’s robes, so I saved them.” Molly said. “Come with me.”

She led John into her work room. Her workspace was neat and organized. The walls were lined with bolts of fabric arranged by color and texture. Scrap boxes were set on the floor under each shelf, with matching thread, needles, and pins arranged on the tables. Molly directed John to have a seat at one of the empty tables while she searched the shelves that held her completed projects. He watched as she pulled a ladder over, climbed up, and pulled a brown parcel tied with twine from the top shelf. She gently dusted it off before she handed it to him with a sad smile.

“Here. These are what he was wearing. I saved everything.” The bell on the shop door jingled and Molly left him with the unopened package.

John undid the twine and carefully unwrapped the contents. There were only a few things on which every mage spent good money: their stones, their staff, and their mage’s robes. All of these things were unique to each mage, tools designed to best fit their own special magic. The robes were always made of the highest-quality material and thread, intricate designs sewn into the fabric, the colors matching a mage’s specific magic. John’s robes were the finest linen he could afford, dyed the deep indigo blue of his eyes. It was a color that changed as the fabric moved, reflecting or refracting light the way his eyes did with his changing emotions. Golden thread was sewn throughout, glittering like tiny flecks of sunlight. A spray of sunbursts graced the hood, and the whole garment was finished with a golden trim. It was his magic embodied in the form of a robe.

John inhaled sharply in shock when he held up Sherlock’s robe. Like all of Sherlock’s other belongings, it was decadent. The fabric rippled through his fingers, a smooth silken river of deep purple and white-silver. It was the purple of twilight, dusky and rich. The silver thread shot through smooth as a mist in the evening sky, swirling and culminating in a radiating crescent moon on the hood. Unlike John’s robe, which was lined with fabric the same color as the outer shell, the lining of Sherlock’s robe matched the silver trim that edged the exterior of the robe. The whole thing looked as rich and lush as it felt. John stared at it in awe for a few minutes as he reverently ran his hands over the garment. Then he gently folded the robe and set it on the table before turning to the rest of the items in the paper. Aside from the robe there was a black silk tunic, leather trousers that John remembered so well from the dream, and a quartz scrying crystal on a silver chain. An image rose unbidden in John’s mind of the man he had seen in his dream last night, dressed in his full mage’s outfit. The contrasting colors of light and dark against Sherlock’s pale skin, his eyes sharp and bright under the hood and his dark curls, the scrying crystal nestled in the hollow of his throat, and his staff in hand.  All of that surrounded by a casting circle.

John suddenly forgot how to breathe, the image was so overwhelming. Sherlock had not only been one of the most attractive men that John was aware of but, judging by the books, stones -- and now, seeing his robes firsthand -- John was certain Sherlock had been one of the most powerful mages he had ever heard of. He would have made an impressive ally -- or foe -- on the battlefield. So that raised the question: Why had he never been on the battlefield? John was certain he would have heard of the man had he been on either side. John pushed that thought into the “things to find out about Sherlock” portion of his brain. He had another agenda today. He checked off “finding Sherlock’s robes” on his mental to-do list. He wrapped up the robes and pocketed the scrying crystal as Molly returned.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to take these back with me, take care of them properly.” John said as he picked up the package. “Not that you haven’t taken good care of them, but …” he trailed off, not sure what to tell her. Other than that they were possible evidence dream Sherlock was who he said he was, John wasn’t sure why he needed them either.

“But I’m not a mage,” she smiled at him, understanding written on her face.

“Yeah,” John smiled sheepishly. “I’m going to head back to the house now. I’ve got to get my tools taken care of, no matter what Sebastian thinks. If I don’t make it back to his house today to cast those protection spells, well, his portion is no skin off my back. I don’t take kindly to bullies,” he said a bit darkly. “He’d best learn that up front. Thanks for your help, Molly.”

Molly smiled and waved good-bye to John as he walked out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John headed straight for the bedroom when he got home, intending to see if the note was indeed in the violin case. He set the parcel down on the bed and looked up to find the shade hovering next to him. He was shocked to find the outline more distinct than when he’d left the house, although it was still easier to distinguish the features of the face in the mirror. It seemed the shade was slowly becoming more and more defined. John furrowed his brow, concerned. He wasn’t sure what was causing the shade to gradually become more discernible. Was it drawing power from somewhere? Was it possible that it was draining his energy little by little? John did a quick, internal check. He didn’t feel drained or weak and he still felt refreshed from his night’s sleep. Other than remaining a bit irritated at Sebastian, he wasn’t experiencing anything negative from his day.

John decided the only way to find out what was going on was to follow the clues suggested in his dream. He gingerly placed the violin case on the bed, removed the instrument with great care and set it gently on the bed. He felt around the velvet lining of the case until he finally found what he was looking for, a harder area under the fabric where the body of the violin rested. There was no break in the fabric, so John pulled at the lining where it met the edge of the case, revealing a small compartment hidden in the wood. He pressed firmly and the top piece popped out. Underneath was an envelope addressed in a firm but elegant script to “Sherlock Holmes”. John removed the letter and replaced the wood, fabric, and violin. It wasn’t as neat a job as he had found it, but he decided it didn’t matter. If the shade was indeed Sherlock, he was the one who had sent him to find the letter in the first place.

John turned and addressed the still-hovering shade. “I have the letter and the robes. Also, Molly saved the clothes and this …” John pulled the scrying crystal out of his pocket. It dangled from his hand, refracting the sunbeam that hit it and casting tiny rainbows over the room. John watched the shade reach out a noncorporeal hand as if to touch it, but John pulled the pendant back. “Proof first. This was a tool that belonged to a powerful mage. I’m not going to let anyone – or anything – that could cause it harm touch this. Same goes for the robes.” John put the pendant back in his pocket and decided it was time for another test.

He gathered the parcel and letter and headed toward the study. The ward he’d cast would keep out all people and beings that were of the Dark. Any being of the Dark would instantly be hit with a painful jolt of his Light magic. It would be interesting to see what would happen to the shade. John opened to door and entered the room. He opened the curtains and sunlight flooded the study. He turned and watched the shade pause at the doorway.

“Come on then,” he said.

The shade paused before it tried to pass through the ward. It reached out and attempted to pass through the invisible barrier. John expected it to either recoil in pain or pass through effortlessly as it came into contact with the ward; instead, it seemed to meet with resistance. There was no sign of pain or shock, but there was obvious effort as the shade tried to push through the unseen wall of the ward. He watched the shade pull back, as if examining the spell, and then try again. Slowly, it came to the border and placed both hands on it. John watched in disbelief as the threads of his spell slowly became visible and then interwoven with a new set of threads, the same color as Sherlock’s robes. He gasped and clutched at his chest as he “felt” the shade push through. When the shade entered the room through the ward, there was an instant when John could make out distinct human features that looked like the Sherlock in his dream before the shade again became a shadowy blur. John had to wait a moment as his breath returned before he moved to examine the threads of magic now interwoven with his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock hovered outside the study. John had obviously decided to conduct some sort of test. Damn that man! Hadn’t Sherlock given him enough evidence to prove he was who he said he was? Apparently, if he wanted John’s help, he was going to have to do more.

He hadn’t tried to enter the room since John had replaced Sherlock’s diminished protective wards with his own. There had been no reason. He hadn’t been altogether certain what would happen if he did. Most protection wards had the caster’s intentions built into them and, even though he’d seen John invoke the spell, he didn’t know what John’s intentions were. Time to find out. Sherlock approached the door and tried to enter the study, but it was if the ward was a firm bubble around the room. There was a slight give to it, unseen to the eye, but Sherlock had felt the invisible wall flex as he’d pushed into it. Wards designed to keep things out didn’t have “give”; they either let you in or gave you a reason not to try again. So Sherlock backed away and studied the spell. He looked closely, his trained eye finally seeing the faint gold and cobalt threads that held the spell together. He paused a moment in frustration before he remembered something he had read about using the threads of a spell to help a mage recognize friend from foe.

Sherlock had tried to use magic only once since his body’s death, when he’d attempted to connect with his staff before his funeral had been held. The effort had been a failure; the repercussions had left him drained and nearer to death than he was when his body had actually died. Since then he had been wary to try any sort of magic. Touching John yesterday hadn’t been Sherlock doing magic. It had just been an experiment and he’d been sucked into someone else’s spell. This was different. This would actually be attempting a minor spell.

Sherlock concentrated, placed his hands on the ward, and put his own intentions – safety, concern, curiosity, frustration, please help – into opening the barrier. Then, instead of taking on the whole spell, he gently pushed against those threads he could see. His own deep violet and silver tendrils of magic wove together with John’s threads. The fabric of the spell “sighed” as it accepted his intentions and Sherlock watched as the threads parted and allowed him to enter the study.

He passed through the barrier and, for a moment, he felt almost human. But as soon as he was completely inside the room, the feeling passed. Sherlock sagged wearily next to the door. The effort had left him exhausted, but not drained. If this form had required breathing, he would have been panting. He otherwise felt no repercussions like he had when he had tried to connect to his staff. How was that possible? Was it because Sherlock was getting stronger or did it have to do with something -- or someone -- else?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John studied the spell in front of him. This wasn't the first time he'd seen his magic joined with another mage’s. He had done it with other battle mages often enough during the war, to make their combined spells stronger and more effective. But that had always required the full concentration and effort of all mages involved. This had been done without his involvement. He studied the beautiful blending of the threads, an intricately woven tapestry, now more than just his simple ward. He reached out one golden thread of his magic, tentatively exploring the new spell. He found the shade’s intentions held in the purple and silver threads. They vibrated along his tether, an underlying urgency in them. Between the colors matching Sherlock's robes -- that wasn't a thing that could be faked or duplicated -- the intentions, and now John's own gut instinct, there was very little doubt in John's mind. The shade was, indeed, Sherlock Holmes. John felt his heart do a strange little flutter and his throat suddenly felt very tight. He swallowed and calmed his nerves. He had one answer, but now he had more questions. He needed to find out why Sherlock had died, why he hadn’t been claimed by the Reaper, and what John could do to help Sherlock move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quartz is the primary stone used for scrying. It is believed to open up the mind to help see more clearly the answer being sought.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> Sherlock's silk is "shantung". Batik and I had a discussion about what fabric would most suit him and sounded most like I pictured it. She suggested between dupioni and shantung. In case you were wondering what the difference is, here is the link she shared: http://www.edelweisspatterns.com/blog/?p=1399
> 
> I've got the next chapter about half way written already, as I wasn't sure where to end this one and kept going. So hopefully, while I'm at the beach this week, I'll get the rest done. This place always inspires me.

**Author's Note:**

> I acknowledge that the [Wheel of the Year](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wheel_of_the_Year) is a modern way of referring to the passage of time. But for the purposes of this fic, the Wheel is a unit of time where the word "year" does not exist.  
> Yule is the Winter Solstice and Longest Night. The night when Dark holds the most sway. Lights and fragrant wood are burned to keep the evil spirits at bay. Imbolc is the observation of purification and pledges. Ostara is the Spring/Vernal Equinox and is associated with fertility and rebirth.  
> The stones set in the staves are set at the cardinal directions and have direct coloration with the elements associated with each direction: East is air, North is earth, West is water, and South is fire.  
> Sherlock's staff stones:  
> Phenacite is the anchoring stone and brings 'intention' to the casting.  
> Air-Lapis Lazuli for self-knowledge  
> Earth- Ruby for life force  
> Water- Amazonite for personal truth  
> Fire- Carnelian for action  
> Poplar wood stands for duplicity, both positive and negative at the same time.


End file.
